


Life Is Unfair But Sometimes It Makes Up For It

by GayAvocad0



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - High School, Cute, Don't copy to another site, Flirty John Watson, Flower Crowns, Flowers, Flustered Sherlock Holmes, Friends to Lovers, I included Eurus, Language of Flowers, M/M, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Rugby Captain John Watson, Schmoop, Teenagers, Teenlock, as normal as a Holmes can be, but she's normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23984230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayAvocad0/pseuds/GayAvocad0
Summary: John Watson had decided to come to his parents’ flower shop. And Sherlock was hiding under the counter of the said flower shop. Guess his luck really had run out.Or: After an experiment gone wrong, Sherlock is forced to work at the flower shop his parents own. He hates it but after the captain of the rugby team, John Watson, shows up, things change and suddenly, life seems to be on his side.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 168





	Life Is Unfair But Sometimes It Makes Up For It

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Wherever you are, I hope you and your loved ones are okay, and if you're feeling down, I hope my attempt at writing a little bit of Johnlock will make you feel better for at least a few minutes :)))

Really, life was quite unfair. It was unfair that Mycroft never had had to work there. It was unfair that Eurus had to work less than him there. It was unfair that just because one of his experiments had set fire to a room, fire that he had under control and extinguished with a (according to his father, very expensive) rug, he had to work at his parent’s flower shop every day after school and would probably have to during the next break. Maybe it was the fact that he had tried to blame it on their cat that made his parents mad? It wasn’t fair anyway. Eurus worked on her own will every Saturday, so why couldn’t she take his shifts if she liked it so much? Didn’t make much of a difference if it was a 16-year-old boy or a 15-year-old girl working, did it?

He had been repeating this same monologue in his mind over the past week. His first day had been a Saturday and Eurus had merely smirked at his absolute misery and claimed that “at least, they’d get to spend more time together and get closer to each other”. Sherlock had only glared at her and begun his sulking at the counter, while she arranged the various bouquets on the various shelves.

If you forgot about how this terrible situation was possibly the worst thing that could happen to him, he had been quite lucky this past week when it came to the flower shop. When a customer came in, there was not much social interaction needed, and the few persistent and talkative ones had been quickly discouraged by his lack of investment in the not-so-much-of-a-conversation. He could just entertain himself by deducing their whole lives and secrets and then go back to doing flower arrangements that his parents had wrote down for him. Sherlock Holmes was many things, but an artist was not one of them. If he ever tried to make a composition of his own it would most definitely come out hideous.

However, there had been one afternoon when his luck had run out. It was on Wednesday. A group of people from his school had passed in the street and one of them had seen him through the large window. They spent at least 15 minutes laughing at the ‘grumpy freak who was working in a flower shop’ before an old lady came in and asked for flowers. After that, they went away and hadn’t come back. Well, for the moment.

In conclusion, he’d still like to be anywhere else but there. It was Saturday! He could load of things on a Saturday! Like trying to do the experiment that got him there in the first place again and finish it. He shouldn’t be stuck in a flower shop decorated with coloured glass bottles and posters with quotes from people he should know but doesn’t!

He was alone at the counter, cutting the damp stems of whatever flowers his mother had left him (alongside with a list of bouquets and precise instructions on how to make them, with _pictures_ ) right after lunch before going out and do something more interesting than _that_. Eurus was at the back of the shop, where Sherlock could hear but not see her rearranging whatever it was that they kept there (Sherlock had never gone there, it seemed a lot more exhausting to work back there), leaving him only with the company of the giant rubber fig that took as much space as an actual person.

It was two o’clock when he saw a figure approaching slowly the shop. He narrowed his eyes in order to see who he’d have to face in a few seconds before he felt the blood leave his face when seeing that familiar face. He did what had seemed like the brightest idea of all times and ducked under the counter and stayed there, crouching, eye-level with the flowers he hadn’t used yet. Sherlock started to whisper-yell his little sister’s name so she could come and save him a lifetime of embarrassment but before she arrived, he heard the bell above the door chime.

John Watson had decided to come to his parents’ flower shop. And Sherlock was hiding under the counter of the said flower shop. Guess his luck really had run out.

Why was that so terrible? Because Sherlock went to school with John Watson and because he may or may not have been admiring and developing feelings for the rugby captain from afar. For a long time. It was stupid, he had known it the minute he had admitted (acknowledged) his stupid infatuation to himself. But Sherlock’s feelings were apparently as stubborn as the boy himself and wouldn’t subside. It was even stupider to hide from him when the golden boy probably didn’t even know Sherlock existed. And yet, Sherlock was frozen as he heard John Watson walk into the shop.

Finally, Eurus appeared in the doorway that led to the back of the shop looking confused and mildly worried (maybe because it wasn’t like Sherlock to call his sister in a hushed and panicked voice). She looked even more bemused when she saw him, damp stem and flowers probably messing his already messy hair. Eurus took her eyes off him to look carefully in the shop without saying a word. John Watson couldn’t see her from where he was standing – and was focused on the flowers anyway – so she simply mouthed “your problem, not mine” at Sherlock and silently retreated back to where she came from before her brother could try to beg her to stay.

He took a deep breath, tried not to think about John Watson seeing him in a dark green ridiculous apron and stood up quickly, making a bunch of flowers fall on the ground. He picked them up hurriedly and put them back under the counter with the rest of them.

When he looked up, John bloody Watson was right there looking at him curiously, a small smile playing on his lips. He held his gaze for a few seconds before John broke into a grin and gasped.

“Hey, I know you! You’re Sherlock, right?”

Oh well, John Watson knew his name, apparently. Sherlock nodded too scared his voice would betray him and crack mid-word.

“Mike told me you came marching in the middle of his class with Mr Harris to complain about how incompetent he was at grading papers and revealed he had sex with another teacher or something like that,” Oh yeah, he had forgotten about that. It’s not like it was an uncommon thing for him to make a scene in the middle of a lecture when something was bothering him. “And I’m pretty sure you’re the ‘wanker’ Chris kept mumbling about during practice. I don’t know what you found out about him, but he was quite upset.” Sherlock had no idea who Chris was or what it was that he found out about him. But then again, he had no idea who most people in his school were.

“Er, yeah, sound like things I’d do…” Sherlock scolded himself for displaying his terrible behaviour in front of the person he’d actually like to act like a normal person with. He expected some harsh comment about how it was unacceptable – which it was, by society standards – and John Watson to storm out of the shop but he only chuckled and kept smiling.

“That’s amazing, really, no one likes Mr Harris and Chris is an absolute prick. It was nice not to hear his idiotic comments for once.”

“Right… You’re welcome… I guess…” Sherlock mumbled still finding the whole situation fairly odd. After about thirty seconds of awkward silence and John Watson looking into his eyes as if he could see his very soul, Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke up. “So how can I help you?”

John seemed to come back to his senses. “Oh right, flowers. Uh well, I’m looking for a bouquet for my sister. I’m visiting her in um…” John looked suddenly uncomfortable and unsure. Sherlock took in his posture, his fidgeting, his staring at the decorated bottles and talked without thinking.

“Rehab.”

John’s eyes widened and Sherlock felt panic rise in him for the second time in the span of 10 minutes. “How did you- Why- Who told you?”

Since Sherlock was probably already screwed, there was no need to hide his ‘freak’ abilities. With less confidence than usual, he began explaining thoroughly how he deduced John’s older sister was in rehab and he was visiting her for the first time. When he finished, John was looking at him with a stunned look.

“That was… amazing.”

Not expecting the praise, Sherlock froze. “Do you think so?”

“Well of course it was! That was absolutely brilliant Sherlock!”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up at the compliment ( _John Watson was complimenting him_ ). “That’s not what people usually say.” He muttered.

“What do they usually say?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Piss off.”

John laughed and Sherlock couldn’t stop the soft smile from forming on his lips. After his laughter died down, John grabbed an arrangement composed of yellow bell-shaped flowers, mixed with tiny orange ones and a few long blades of grass. He remembered making it earlier this day and felt strangely warm at the thought of giving John Watson one of his own bouquets. How pathetic.

“I’ll take this one. She likes warm and bright colours but would probably kill me if I showed up with a huge bouquet with a thousand types of flowers. She’d say she feels ‘overwhelmed’ but really she’d be looking for excuses to yell at me.” John chuckled and Sherlock could do nothing else but stiffly smile at him.

John handed the bouquet to Sherlock and he began to wrap dark green paper around the flower and as he was about to fix it with a thin yellow ribbon – to match the flowers – on the middle of the stems, John spoke up again. “So, what are they?”

“What?” Sherlock asked without taking up his eyes off the bouquet while finishing tying the ribbon around it.

“What type of flower are they? I’m quite rubbish when it comes to plants.”

Sherlock finally looked up only to find John leaning on the counter, smiling at him. “I have no idea…” He answered truthfully.

“You work in a flower shop and you don’t know what flower you sell? What a terrible florist you are, Sherlock Holmes…” John shook his head and laughed softly.

“Well, I don’t exactly want to be working here,” Sherlock mumbled lowering his eyes again. “Flowers all have boring and stupid names, so I register them differently in my mind. These ones are ‘bell-shaped yellow flowers’ and ‘tiny four-petaled colour-changing-but-mostly-orange flowers’.” At that, the boy in front of him went on full-on laughing mode. Maybe Sherlock had eaten something bad at lunch. Maybe that was why his insides felt so weird.

“You’re quite special, aren’t you?” John said when his laughter died down. Sherlock shrugged, handed the bouquet back to John and attempted to ignore the heat travelling from the spot where his fingers brushed with John’s to his face.

John started to walk away, towards the door when he turned around to look at Sherlock again. “By the way, you’ve got a ‘tiny-but-not-too-tiny purple flower’ in your hair. Looks lovely on you though.” Sherlock quickly carded his fingers in his hair and retrieved the flower before flicking it to the floor. John merely smirked at him and waved with his free hand. “See you, Sherlock.”

“Yeah er… You too?” He croaked out lamely and resisted the urge to slap himself across the face. How come any trace of eloquence was instantly wiped out from his being when interacting with John Watson? Right, because that boy was attractive _and_ absolutely delightful to talk to.

The bell chimed and John Watson disappeared in the street. Sherlock let out a sigh. If it was a relieved one or a Victorian-heroine-worthy one, he didn’t know and wouldn’t tell if he did.

He was startled by his sister coming into the shop to water some of the plants. “I’m surprised you didn’t shag right here on the counter.” Eurus always had the most neutral expressions even when saying things like that. “And they were calla lilies and wallflowers. If you ever want to impress him or something.”

“Shut up…” Sherlock growled while continuing the composition he was making before being interrupted, glancing at the instructions from time to time.

They fell into a comfortable silence, disturbed only by the soft classical music playing in the shop (his parents were convinced music helped plants grow better but Sherlock just found that stupid), Eurus’ occasional comments on random things and a few customers.

Sherlock had never felt so good while working in the flower shop.

-

Life was unfair. It was unfair that he was stuck for hours in a crowded place full of idiots. It was unfair that his parents made him go there even though they knew he was too clever to fit in such a dull place. It was really unfair that he didn’t have the right to use the lab without supervision anymore.

That’s what Sherlock had been telling himself all day, most of the days, for as long as he could remember going to school. Except for the lab part. This one was quite recent.

He was walking in the hallway, trying to get to his locker without running into anyone whom he didn’t want to run into, his eyes lowered in order to avoid meeting someone’s gaze. For some reason, that had been held against him several times the previous year. He shook his head trying to erase the memory of the one-sided and inequitable fight that ensued.

Right when he arrived at his locker, he heard someone call his name and before he could dwell too much on the fact that it wasn’t the usual ‘freak’ or eventual ‘poof’, John Watson appeared smiling right in front of him. Even a little too close.

“Hi, Sherlock!” He said cheerfully.

“You could lose the respect of the rugby team if the boys saw you talking with me you know?” Sherlock blurted out before he could think better of it. Honestly, it was probably the worst way to greet someone. Especially if you wanted this someone to like you. But seeing John Watson’s confused look and blinking eyes gave him great reasons to believe the rugby captain wasn’t aware of Sherlock’s social status in this school. “Never mind… Did your sister like the flowers?”

John smiled again at the question and seemed to settle against the locker next to Sherlock’s as if he were staying here for a long, pleasant chat. “I wouldn’t know. She said she hated them, but you know, she’s my sister. I could buy her the thing she’s dreamt of since forever and she wouldn’t admit she liked it in front of me. I saw her smile at them though, so I guess they were okay.”

“Good,” Sherlock said while swapping books and papers he hoped were the ones he needed. Not that it would matter much if they weren’t. Sherlock didn’t particularly mind if he didn’t do well in school because what he was (supposed to be) learning there, would never be useful in his life ever again.

“Yeah,” John replied. He was still smiling but Sherlock could see he felt a little uncomfortable. And he couldn’t really blame him.

“You don’t have to stay w-”

“You should come and eat lunch with Mike and me later.”

Sherlock muttered words were drowned out by John confident full sentence. And next thing Sherlock knew, John Watson was scolding him about his bad eating habits over lunch with an ordinary but nice boy called Mike Stamford.

The next day, he was eating what John told him to eat while Mike was laughing at them.

The day after, John came by the flower shop after school just to chat with Sherlock while he worked alongside his father – he and John got on really well and it made Sherlock feel all warm.

A week later, John asked him to help him with his chemistry homework.

Two days after that, John had his own high stool and his part of the large counter in the Holmes flower shop where he put his notebooks and pens, and Sherlock helped him almost every day after school and on Saturday. If they weren’t doing homework or going through John’s notes, they were talking and laughing at embarrassing things Sherlock deduced about the customers.

Sometimes, John would buy a bouquet for his sister and they would give stupid names to the flowers that composed it.

Sometimes, John would compliment him on his deducing skill or throw a flirty comment out in the air and Sherlock would only scoff and try to hide his blush while willing himself not to look too much into that and not ruin that wonderful friendship they had.

Sometimes, John would reproach him to be too unpleasant towards the customers and lack social skills, before explaining to him how he could act with them instead – things that Sherlock deleted immediately after hearing them.

Sometimes, John would come directly after rugby practice and Sherlock would pretend he didn’t notice John’s ruffled hair and flushed cheeks and would ignore his mother’s or father’s knowing smiles as well as the tingling in his stomach.

Sometimes, John would ask him to come watch his games and Sherlock would agree and say he hated it afterwards when really, he rather enjoyed it.

It all happened so fast, even Sherlock’s mind hadn’t completely processed it yet. John Watson was becoming his best friend and Sherlock had never felt so complete.

After a while, other kids stopped picking on him and calling him names for no reason. Yet, John had never admitted having anything to do with this, but Sherlock knew better.

And if he had not-so-accidentally set fire to the rug in a hallway with the same experiment that had got him working in the flower shop in the first place, and got him there a second time for a much longer span of time, well no one had the right to assume anything.

-

Life was very unfair. It was unfair that no one believed he was capable of doing things right. It was unfair that no one thought he was the cleverest person in London and probably in the world (except John, John always told him he was the cleverest person he’s ever met). It was unfair that the DI (Gavin? George? Gary? Lestrade) was listening to those two idiots instead of him when clearly, he knew better than them.

It was a rainy Saturday and Sherlock had been pacing behind the counter, repeating this over and over again, ever since he had tried to get in touch with New Scotland Yard – and that had been four hours ago – about a supposed suicide that was _obviously_ a murder, and a very clumsy one on top of that. It wasn’t that interesting, but the wrongness of people’s assumption had infuriated Sherlock. Besides, he had to start building a good reputation as a consulting detective.

Unfortunately, the people he had talked to had been irritatingly uncooperative. The only reactions he had got out of them when he explained and proved to them it was a murder, was a shocked (and he was certain, a little impressed) look on the DI’s face, a disgusted frown from a stupid young man, and a muttered “freak” coming out of a stupid young woman’s lips – he had resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the insult he used to be so familiar with. Right after, the same woman had requested he’d go far away and never come back, to which the other idiot nodded enthusiastically. The DI was clearly not as convinced as them that Sherlock was insane but had still made him go.

He had angrily marched back in the flower shop, where Eurus had been covering for him and making excuses to his father as to why Sherlock wasn’t working (they actually had got closer to each other. Not that Sherlock would ever admit such an emotional thing). It had been quite easy considering that no one came into the shop because of the awful weather.

He was cold, he was soaked, he hadn’t been taken seriously (as always), and John was away on a trip with the rugby team (Sherlock selfishly hoped it was ruined by the weather, wherever they went) or some nonsense like that, until late in the evening. So he couldn’t loudly complain to anyone.

His father had asked him if he wanted to go home – their house wasn’t far from the flower shop – to change clothes and dry his hair, but Sherlock had ignored him and continued his pacing. Oddly enough, his father didn’t make a fuss out of Sherlock’s unproductivity or about the fact that the boy was dripping wet and making the floor all gross. Eurus did, though.

“I hope you’re not planning on leaving the shop without cleaning that.” She said flatly, gesturing to the splotches of mud and the small lake forming on the floor close to the counter. Sherlock merely grunted at her without once stopping his pacing, which only worsened the floor’s state.

Eurus sighed and went back to doing whatever she was doing before. Not much probably.

It was another half hour of sulking and grumbling on Sherlock’s part and worried or annoyed glances on his father and sister’s part before the door opened at exactly 1:37 in the afternoon. Entered the incompetent but relatively nice DI from the morning, who looked miserable because of the rain but also, Sherlock deduced, because there had been no progress made on the case. They had wrapped their mind around the fact that it was a murder about two hours after Sherlock was sent back to the flower shop but had no idea who or why. The desperate look on the man’s face said it all. And something must have come up for him to go looking directly for him.

Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning like the madman he was and expose the 2 complete and 3 incomplete theories he already had formed with the few glimpses he had got.

“Um hi, remember me?” He was nervous. And in a hurry. Sherlock decided he was going to make this more difficult than he ought to.

Sherlock grunted and pretended to make a flower arrangement, trying to look disinterested.

“Look, I am probably going to regret that decision, but I need you to come with me.”

“Why’s that?” Sherlock didn’t even look up.

“What you said about the dead man being murdered was true and I have no bloody idea how you figured that out but if you could say that just from little bits you saw, you could help us a lot if you’d come.”

“You need my help to solve a murder even though I’m not even 17 and you’ve been at New Scotland Yard since the very beginning of your professional career?” This time, Sherlock did look up, only to find what he was expecting. Lestrade gritting his teeth to prevent himself from saying something that would discourage Sherlock to help him, still fidgeting with the lapel of his coat in a nervous kind of way.

“I guess you could say that… My point is, we’ve reached a dead end and what you said this morning was very interesting.”

“Something new came up, right? What is it? A note signed by the killer. That’s it isn’t it?”

“How the bloody hell did you- you know what? Never mind. Just come with me tell me as much as you can about it.” There was a pause during which Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man standing in front of him – resulting in making him even more anxious than he already was – and waited just a few more seconds. “Please.” The DI added.

“All right.” He said in what he hoped was a casual tone.

DI Lestrade visibly relaxed at Sherlock’s words. “Oh great, thank you, now come with me. I won’t be able to give you more than five minutes at the actual crime scene, but I can give you all the files and reports you need.”

Sherlock felt ecstatic. His bad mood forgotten, he went around the counter to follow the DI when his father’s voice burst his bubble of joy. “Sherlock, where are you going?”

“Er…” Sherlock didn’t know what his father thought of his fascination with crimes. He wouldn’t care what his parents thought if they were anyone else, but considering he lived with them and was dependent of them, he _did_ care a little about their opinions on the matter.

The DI seemed to be at loss for words, as much as Sherlock was. Before one of them could say anything that would have scared Sherlock’s father and make him lock his son in his room until he’s eighteen, Eurus appeared behind their father. “It’s important to him, Dad.”

The man bit his bottom lip (a nervous tic Sherlock had come to associate with concern and rather important decisions to make) before inhaling deeply. “Be careful.” These two words were all he said before retiring to the back of the shop. Sherlock cast a thankful glance at Eurus who merely shook her head at the lack of oral gratefulness. For some reason, she had never agreed with her much older brother’s opinion on how any kind of emotion was a weakness. Sherlock had tried to explain it to her numerous times but just like her parents, she didn’t understand any of it and thought the only reason Mycroft believed it, was because someone broke his heart or some other nonsense Sherlock had heard over dinner once or twice.

Sherlock agreed with Mycroft on that. It was the only thing he agreed with Mycroft on. His feelings for John were just another proof. Yet, the task to make them disappear was much harder than he expected. And Mycroft had never told him that.

Eurus didn’t make any comments. Instead, she spoke in the flattest tone. “You’ll clean the floor afterwards. And there is no way you’re making me do it this time alright?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, not agreeing to these terms and his sister joined their father at the back of the shop.

Sherlock turned back toward the DI who, from the look he was wearing, was puzzled by all the silent conversations and unsaid words. Sherlock shrugged, untied his dark green apron and went out of the shop, walking directly toward what he knew was the DI’s car. “Give me the killer’s note. It could already give me a lead on who she is.”

“She?” The DI asked following Sherlock and handing him a piece of paper with a small hole indicating it had been pinned to something.

“Obviously.”

It turned out to be the sister of the victim, who, in a fit of jealousy over her brother’s successfulness, had shot him in the head. The murderer was doing an internship with the forensic scientists and that’s how she managed to access the corpse to pin the note to it – the note wasn’t really relevant, it only confirmed Sherlock’s opinion on how most murderers want to get caught. And when the police found her flat, they also found evidence that she was planning on killing other people. Real nice lady.

When Sherlock had arrived with Lestrade, the two idiots from earlier in the day had greeted him with repulsed looks and protestations. However, this time, the DI had simply ignored them and kept on listening to Sherlock unloading all the information he could deduce.

He had been right all along, of course.

There had been some shooting and some dangerous murderer chase all around London and Sherlock had loved every single part of this rainy and what should have a boring afternoon.

Around 9 o’clock, he was being driven back home by Lestrade who was having a one-sided conversation. They passed the flower shop (it was closed. Not surprising considering it was already dark) and not long after, arrived at the Holmes’ house.

“Well, that’s a… a big house,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened the car door, bracing himself for the rain that was still pouring. “Hey, thanks again for helping. I know who I can count on next time I need help.” Sherlock tried to conceal his smile but judging by the amused look the DI was casting him, he was failing miserably. He settled on ducking his head and clearing his throat before muttering a small ‘you’re welcome’ and getting out of the car.

He ran to the door trying to stay as dry as he could. He didn’t even have the time to reach for the handle, the front door opened before him revealing an angry-looking John Watson behind whom were his parents who were displaying all the signs of being worried.

Sherlock swallowed and discovered yet again a new side of John. This boy was an unsolvable mystery, such an interesting person that Sherlock had never found himself bored of him. And he was sure he never would. But unlike every other time John had surprised him with a new aspect of his persona, this side of him was intimidating and Sherlock truly hoped to never see John angry with him ever again because he found _that_ look quite scary. And Sherlock was not scared easily.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking!” It’s John who started shouting but his parents quickly caught on and after a few seconds their voices overlapped, and it was nearly impossible to decipher who was saying what.

“Sherlock, I thought it was going to be a quick thing and you show up at 9 and it’s already dark and you’re-”

“You could have got hurt or-”

“At least tell us exactly where you’re going and what you’re doing-”

“-or take John with you-”

“-yes bring me along next time because you know if it wasn’t for me you’d die of starvation or about a thousand other ways-”

“Just imagine how I reacted when Mycroft called me to me you were running around London-”

“Chasing a murderer with the police, Sherlock! That’s crazy and-”

Great, now for some reason Mycroft could know where he was and he was probably waiting for him in the sitting room along with Eurus if the ugly coat hanging by the door and the umbrella were anything to go by, thought Sherlock while his parents and his best friends kept on reproaching him what sounded like every single thing he had done since he was born.

“And come inside would you, you’re going to catch a cold if you stay in the middle of this downpour!” He didn’t know who said that, but Sherlock very much wanted to say that he wasn’t the one standing in the doorframe, preventing anyone from getting in or out if the house. He decided against it when he saw the look John was giving him and hoped the shudder that shook his whole body was going to be interpreted as a simple reaction to the cold rather than to John’s hard stare.

He stepped inside and immediately took off his drenched coat and muddy shoes. As soon as he had ditched them, his mother pushed him gently in the direction of their downstairs bathroom.

After his hot and longer-than-necessary shower, Sherlock padded to the sitting room where Eurus and John were having what seemed to be a normal and dull conversation on the sofa, and as expected, Mycroft was sitting on an armchair, facing him.

“You are back from your adventures in good health I see, dear brother.” Mycroft was smiling tightly. John and Eurus looked up, their eyes going from Mycroft to Sherlock. When Sherlock met his friend’s eyes, he was rather relieved to find that there was no trace of anger in them.

“And I see you’re back from whatever it is you’re doing, other than stalking me, fatter than you should be. Tell me, how is that diet working out for you?”

Sherlock saw the corner of his older brother’s lips twitch, but he managed to keep smiling falsely as if Sherlock hadn’t said anything.

“He is quite fat, isn’t he? I’m glad it’s not just me thinking it.” Eurus said after a few moments of tense silence.

“You are both insufferable.” Finally, Mycroft’s façade broke and he let out a loud, annoyed sigh, rolled his eyes and got up to walk out of the room.

On the sofa, John looked partly shocked, partly amused the siblings’ exchange. Sherlock winked at him and it earned him a smile. Only a couple of minutes later, Sherlock’s mother arrived with a sandwich and a glass of water. “Leave your brother alone and get along with him. He is going to spend the whole week here and I would like it not to be a constant war, understood?”

“Yes, Mummy…” Eurus and Sherlock said absentmindedly, as getting along with Mycroft was something they were asked to do often but never managed to accomplish. Sherlock settled (slumped) on the sofa next to John, trapping the rugby captain between him and his sister.

He took the food his mother was handing him with a muttered ‘Ta’ and ate most of it, leaving some only because of his principles.

“The mattress for John is already in your room. Goodnight boys! And Sherlock we will talk more about all of this tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Not on how there was nothing to talk about and not on how John was apparently staying in his room for the night. John thanked her and wished her goodnight too. Sherlock could tell his parents were also charmed by John Watson. No one could resist him. Sadly, the whole school shared this opinion.

The moment Sherlock closed the door, he started talking so that John couldn’t ask any questions. “I’ll explain everything after you’ve told me why you’re here.”

John sighed but probably guessed there was no use trying to negotiate and sat down on Sherlock’s bed. “As you could see the weather was particularly bad today and it wasn’t better where the rugby lads and I went so we decided to go back home and reorganize the trip another time. Since I had nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon, I went to find you in the flower shop. But what I didn’t know, was that you were in London chasing after a crazy murderer while it was raining buckets,” He looked at Sherlock accusingly and Sherlock almost felt guilty. Almost. “So I asked your dad if I could stay and wait for you in the shop and he agreed. But I didn’t know either, was that you weren’t planning on coming back when it was already dark outside. Then your parents asked me if I wanted to stay over for the night, so I could wait for you. And here I am. Now your turn, what happened exactly?”

Sherlock walked to his bed and sat next to John. He told him about the supposedly suicide that was, in fact, a murder and how he had crossed paths with a whole lot of incompetent idiots before finally having someone give him a chance. He then explained thoroughly the whole case and his method to find the killer – including chasing her around London. John was listening to every word Sherlock was saying. Sherlock could tell by the way he reacted (eyes widening, breathing quickening, hands twitching…) when he was getting to the good parts of the story, that John was fascinated and maybe also terrified.

“Sherlock that is absolutely brilliant,” John started after Sherlock finished the tale of his adventures of the day. “Really, it’s amazing, I’ll never get used to your cleverness, but you can’t disappear like you did today. I was so scared something had happened to you. I thought your father was going to have an attack because of how worked up he was. He blamed himself for something that didn’t even happen… We all know you’re not exactly the most careful person when it comes to taking care of yourself."

Sherlock scoffed. “Well, what did you want me to do? Let go of a mildly interesting murder and stay all afternoon in the shop instead?”

“No,” John said slowly. Sherlock read off John’s look something along the lines of ‘stop using that tone with me and let me and my perfect, polite and caring self, explain everything to you’. He would have said something, but John still looked quite intimidating. “But for starters, you could tell your dad or mum where you are going and for how long. Or that you don’t know if you truly don’t know how long it’s going to last.”

“He didn’t ask…” Sherlock mumbled. He was in a sulky mood but lucky him, John seemed to find this mood amusing and often offered him soft smiles.

“He didn’t know you were going to be gone more than two hours Sherlock,” John didn’t appear to be very amused. “and the second thing you could do is bring me along. You probably don’t really need me for anything else than keeping you alive but leave me a note or something next time. Hell, Sherlock, break into my flat if you have to, tell my parents to pass me on a message if I’m not there, but don’t go running off like you did today!”

John was up again, waving his arms around to empathize his words and Sherlock couldn’t describe as anything else but adorable. He wasn’t frightening anymore, he was simply kind, thoughtful and _worried_.

“Okay,” Sherlock said getting up to join John and prevent him from breaking something because of all the waving and pacing he was doing.

“Okay?” John stopped dead in his tracks, a sincere expression of surprise on his face.

“Okay. I’ll take you with me next time.”

“You were easier to convince than I expected,” John narrowed his eyes suspiciously and got closer to Sherlock. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing!” Honestly, Sherlock was a little offended that John didn’t believe him. He couldn’t exactly blame him, but he was offended. “I just like company when I go out…”

There was a tense silence and Sherlock felt as if his heart was going to beat out of his chest. After a moment, Sherlock saw John break into a small smile. The shorter boy got closer and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, burying his head in Sherlock’s shoulder. It took longer than it should have for Sherlock to remember how to breathe. It wasn’t the first time John hugged him – he was a very tactile person – but he always found himself hoping John couldn’t hear his heartbeat, wanting to break the hug but wanting to stay in this position forever. This one was not an exception.

Finally, Sherlock put his arms around John’s shoulder.

“Alright, deal,” John spoke into the fabric of the (rather thin) pyjama he had put on after his shower. “You can keep putting your life in danger and chase murderers but only if I’m with you.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement and they broke their embrace to Sherlock’s relief and disappointment.

After John changed to old pyjamas Sherlock’s mother had provided to him, they both went to bed.

“Sherlock?” John whispered in the dark room.

“Yes?”

“I think your brother hates me…” Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at how much John sounded bothered by this. “What? It’s true! He kept glaring at me as if I had murdered someone myself.”

“Mycroft hates everyone,” Sherlock said after his fit of laughter died down. “It has nothing to do with you, I promise.”

“Well, it sure looked personal…” John grumbled.

They continued chatting about everything and nothing. Sherlock had at some point remarked that it was quite difficult to talk to John when he was on the floor and he couldn’t see him. What he hadn’t expected was for John to take his pillow, settle next to him under the duvet and carry on with whatever he was saying at the time.

When John finally fell asleep, Sherlock allowed himself to stare at what he could see of John’s face. He looked really peaceful and had nothing to do with his agitated self from earlier in the evening.

He could feel John’s body heat and Sherlock had never felt so terrified and content at the same time.

-

Life was being quite unfair. It was unfair that John wasn’t there with him. It was unfair that he was left to have small talks with all these boring customers. It was unfair that his mother wouldn’t tell him why the hell John wasn’t there when she so obviously knew something – she was glancing at Sherlock and the clock from time to time and she looked too excited for it to be considered normal.

Sherlock had been sulking and mumbling this over and over again, all day long.

“Ah sorry, it took longer than I expected,” The bell chimed, and John’s voice came to his ears. Sherlock looked up suddenly to find his best friend wearing his rugby jacket open (Sherlock always noticed when John wore this jacket no matter how irrelevant to any situation it was. Maybe because he secretly loved it when John wore it…) and carrying a big box wrapped in an obnoxious and colourful paper and a circle-shaped, fragile-looking thing covered in a dark green paper. “Turns out Sherlock was right when he said that the people in NSY are rather thick and uncooperative. Although I was under the impression they became even more hostile when I mentioned you.” John grinned at him and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“What were you doing there anyway? And what is-” Sherlock stopped and turned around only to find a newly hung, completely ridiculous ‘Happy birthday!’ banner. And his father had apparently joined them.

Right. That explained the gifts John was carrying and the excited expression his mother was wearing. She had never really accepted or got used to her son’s absolute hatred for this kind of event. He had made it clear years ago that he _did not_ want his birthday to be celebrated and that he thought of it as a waste of time and energy. She had respected that – more or less, throughout the years – but had seemingly taken advantage of his acquired friendship to break the unspoken rule that Sherlock Holmes’ birthdays were not to be celebrated.

John put the seemingly heavy box on the counter right before Sherlock but kept the other gift in his left hand. “All right,” John placed his hands on his hips and directed a satisfied smile at Sherlock. “I went through all kinds of troubles to get you that present so you might as well open it.”

Sherlock sighed. John looked so happy it would have been a crime to ruin his mood by throwing a tantrum about a birthday.

He tore the ugly wrapping paper and opened the brown carton box to reveal what he had expected. Inside were dozens and dozens of New Scotland Yard cold case files. Sherlock wasn’t surprised but he was very pleased with it. The most pleased he’s ever been when receiving something. He picked the first file and started reading it without even bothering to try to hide his smile.

“I, er…” Sherlock looked up and found John looking diffident and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “I tried to pick the most interesting ones but no matter how nice he is, Lestrade couldn’t let me spend too much time in there so maybe they’re not all great… Sorry but it’s quite difficult to find a present that you might remotely like…” John chuckled but Sherlock saw he was rather nervous.

“It’s perfect, really,” Sherlock offered him a reassuring smile (well as reassuring as Sherlock could smile) and went back to reading the file. It was a really good case and certainly not boring. No wonder the idiots who called themselves the police didn’t manage to close it. “The best gift I ever got, thank you.”

John beamed at him and he might have heard Eurus scoff, his father chuckle and his mother coo. He chose to ignore it all.

“I wanted Mycroft to come but he couldn’t make it…” His mother looked truly apologetic and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“What a shame…” Sherlock said sarcastically and rolled his eyes while John and Eurus tried to stifle their laughter.

“We too have something for you,” His father smiled and handed him a dark blue scarf. Sherlock looked at his parents puzzled. “Since you are going to be running around London and God knows where else, we figured it would be better for you not to get sick every time.”

“Thank you…”

Sherlock felt uneasy with all this attention turned on him for something else than a demonstration of his intelligence. It was one of the reasons he had stopped celebrating his birthday.

He looked at Eurus, readying himself for another round of awkward feelings and half-faked gratefulness. She merely raised an eyebrow. 

“What?” She said flatly. “Oh, I’ve got one too, from both Mycroft and me. But he didn’t want me to give it to you when Mummy and Dad are around,” Sherlock gulped. If Mycroft and Eurus had teamed up to find him something his parents couldn’t see, this something couldn’t be anything else but extremely dangerous or extremely embarrassing. Eurus shrugged. “I think it could have been funny, but he thought it was too ‘immature’…”

“Right,” Sherlock said cautiously as if he were expecting something to blow up in his face right this moment.

A customer came in and everyone went back to their duties, with John sitting on his high wooden stool by the counter, absentmindedly drumming on it with his fingers. After the man went out and Sherlock told him goodbye as politely as he could manage, he turned to John and pointed the weird wrapped circle-shaped thing that had moved from John’s hand to the counter. “What’s that?”

“Oh, right,” John brightened, and Sherlock saw a glint in his eyes he could not quite identify. “Here, it’s for you.” He said thrusting it in Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock cautiously unwrapped it – it really seemed fragile. Next thing he knew, he was holding smallish blue flowers paired with tiny white ones, arranged and fixed in a circle. And he was _very_ confused. He looked up at John and raised an eyebrow.

“Really, this one is more for me than for you,” John said, gently plucking the flower crown from Sherlock’s fingers. “I remembered how you looked that first day with the flower in your hair,” John was getting closer and lowering the flowers on Sherlock’s head. “And I wanted to see it again and I am definitely not disappointed.”

“What?” Sherlock croaked. His mouth suddenly felt extremely dry and John was smiling fondly at him, his face still really close to Sherlock’s.

“You look absolutely adorable,” John’s smile widened and any trace of shyness that might have been present when he gave his first gift to him were completely gone.

“I’m not adorable…” Sherlock mumbled giving up all attempt to stop the blush creeping up his cheeks and ducked his face.

John sat back on the stool, still smiling at Sherlock as if he were the most wonderful thing he had ever seen. “They’re real flowers so they won’t last long but I’ll bring one to you regularly. You really look too fit with it.”

Just like that, Sherlock’s face felt as if it were on fire. “Shut up, git…” Sherlock reached for his instructions and busied his hands by starting a new arrangement. John laughed and started talking about his crazy mission to retrieve the cold cases from New Scotland Yard. They fell into their usual and comfortable dynamic.

And Sherlock’s chest had never felt so warm and tingly before.

Later this day, after John had gone home, Sherlock picked up the mop and cleaned the floor for the first time since he started working at the flower shop. But it wasn’t to thank his parents for the small celebration. And if they saw it like that, then it was a big misinterpretation and their problem, not Sherlock’s.

Even later in the evening, when Sherlock and his family had gone home and he was reading one of the files John had given him, Eurus entered his room and dropped a huge pack of condoms along with a ‘Happy birthday’ card signed by both Eurus and Mycroft right before him on his bed.

“I have no idea how you got Mycroft to agree to give me this as a present from him, but I have to say I’m quite impressed.” He was. Didn’t mean he was pleased with the present. But he was impressed.

“Happy birthday Sherlock,” She said flatly with the hint of a smile on her lips before leaving the room. Without closing the door on her way out. Because that’s what younger siblings do.

-

“Do you know anything about the flower language?” John asked from Sherlock’s bed on a Friday evening.

“I didn’t know there was a ‘flower language’,” Sherlock turned from his desk with his swivel chair, abandoning the study of his latest experiment to face John. “Why would you ask anyway? You know I delete the things I have no use for from my mind.”

“Well it could be much more useful than you think,” John handed him the file he had picked up from his nightstand, and Sherlock started reading it. “The murderer kept leaving various flowers on the corpses of their victims and I thought of how you always go on about serial killers _wanting_ to get caught. And I remembered something about flower language so I figured it could, maybe, be a lead?”

John looked quite unsure about his own theory, but the more Sherlock read about the murders, the more it started to make sense. “John you’re brilliant,” Sherlock said quietly. He got up the file still in hands. “You’re amazing,” He added, getting out of the room to go to his library.

“I am?” John snorted. He followed Sherlock and settled in a comfortable armchair, grabbing a fantasy book Sherlock couldn’t bother remembering the name of from the coffee table nearby.

“Oh yes definitely,” Sherlock said absentmindedly, picking every book he could find about flowers on the shelves.

Sherlock ended up learning everything there was to learn about flowers, going from how poisonous some could be to their symbolism in flower language. As the night went on, John’s already unconvincing attempts at making him go to bed became more and more half-hearted and the time it took for him read a page of his book increased. Finally, around three in the morning – later than Sherlock anticipated – John fell asleep in the chair.

Sherlock considered getting him in a proper bed before remembering that John exercised regularly and, even though he was tall, the same couldn’t be said for Sherlock. He resolved himself to interrupt his ‘study session’ to pluck the book from John’s limp hands and retrieve a blanket from his room to at least provide John with a little warmth.

Sherlock could have stayed there all night, watching John sleep looking so peaceful, but he suspected John would feel rather uneasy if he happened to wake up with Sherlock’s face inches away from his own and his eyes intently fixed on him.

Besides, he had books to get back to.

With this thought, he went back to adding flowers-related information to his Mind Palace.

When John awoke, Sherlock was just finishing tying up the loose ends of the case and already had a cup of tea ready for him.

“Drink your tea John,” Sherlock said standing up from the carpeted floor where he was sitting. “We have to go investigate today.”

“Huh?” John’s hair was mussed, he looked utterly confused and it took him a few more seconds to form coherent words. “Right, I’m assuming you figured something out about the case,” He picked up the cup, gratifying Sherlock with the appreciative smile he was waiting for. “Aren’t you supposed to be working in the flower shop today?” He asked after taking a sip.

Sherlock scoffed. Technically, he didn’t _have_ to keep working in the shop. It used to be a punishment and wasn’t supposed to last that long. But since he started working there, things had changed, and Sherlock had trouble imagining his weeks without his shifts in the flower shop in the company of John and the giant rubber fig no one wanted. He didn’t complain about it anymore, and his family was clever enough not to mention it, knowing it would cause Sherlock to get defensive about it. But he would _never_ admit he liked things as shallow as plants were. And now that this case had given him the perfect excuse to learn things about flowers, he would enjoy spending time there even more. Not that he’d tell anyone.

“They’ll be fine without me,” Sherlock chose to ignore John’s knowing look. “We can stop at your place if you need to pick things up for the weekend. And tell your parents they won’t see you for at least the next 28 hours.” He sat on the floor next to John’s chair and rested his back against the armrest.

John chuckled and Sherlock felt warm fingers carding through his curls. He froze for less than a second before deciding that John was still too drowsy to judge his actions or deduce anything from it and leaned into the touch, silently telling John the stroking was welcomed.

John kept his hand in Sherlock’s hair while drinking his tea and Sherlock had to battle with himself to keep the contented sighs that threatened to spill out. It took John exactly seven more minutes than usual to finish his cup of tea but as much as Sherlock wanted to believe it was because John enjoyed passing his fingers repeatedly in his friend’s hair, he was realistic and knew his sleepy state was to blame.

They got up and 29 hours later, the case was solved.

John and Sherlock were giggling in the back of Lestrade’s car – he had insisted on driving them back to their respective home, not wanting to have problems with any of their parents – and when they dropped John off, Lestrade gave him a look and a smile in the rear mirror that was most definitely announcing an unwanted comment.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

-

Life was so, so, _so_ unfair. It was unfair that John was so close to him, yet so unattainable. It was unfair that John couldn’t see how much Sherlock loved him but saw it when the feelings were held by girls. It was unfair that Sherlock had to sit there and watch his best friend and the one person he ever loved this way pick flowers that had very much _not_ platonic meanings – he hadn’t deleted flower language because it was _interesting_ and John seemed fascinated with it.

This had been his train of thought since John had come into the shop looking utterly terrified and nervous and had only cast an apologetic look at Sherlock. He then had got to watch Eurus and John talk in hushed voices in the corner of the shop where customers could compose their own bouquets. And all Sherlock could do was glare at them and ignore the sting at the back of his eyes and the invisible hand that had reached down his throat and was squeezing his heart.

He suspected John was going to give the flowers to Mary Morstan. She seemed to be interested in John for more than the little chats they shared during lunch break and Sherlock couldn’t deny she was a nice person with interesting stories to tell. However, he couldn’t help but feel resentful about her.

Before John became his friend, when he saw a girl – or occasionally a boy but that was rather rare – throw themselves at the rugby captain, he felt mildly annoyed. But after he got close to the other boy, his ridiculous infatuation (he hated this word) had morphed into something greater. He loved John. He loved John so much it hurt, and it felt as if there was nothing he could do but keep these feelings to himself and make sure John never found out about them and stayed happy. Because John’s happiness had recently become his priority. And if it meant spending less time with Sherlock to go on dates with Mary Morstan, then Sherlock was willing to suffer to ensure John’s contentment.

Mycroft had been right all along; caring was not an advantage.

Sherlock checked the flowers John had picked one last time while his sister was telling his friend he could have them for free and was patting his shoulder as reassuringly as Eurus could. And it wasn’t very reassuring. He saw white camellias, meaning ‘you’re adorable’ and ‘perfected loveliness’, a few gloxinias that represented love at first sight and finally, red chrysanthemums that meant ‘I love you’.

He shouldn’t spend any more time reviewing these meanings. He should busy himself and go at the back of the shop for once. He should try not to think about John and Mary being a happy couple and John slowly forgetting about him. But he _couldn’t_ stop thinking about all that.

As John approached the counter, he felt the urgent need to throw up. He had heard Eurus telling him he could have the flowers for free, so if John was going towards Sherlock who was behind the counter, it was to tell him something Sherlock did not want to hear. He had a few theories, each worse than the other. The main idea was that John, somehow, knew about his feelings and was going to let him down gently. Because John was nice like that and he cared about his friend.

John was pale and looked as dreadful as Sherlock felt. He was walking very slowly, and Sherlock almost wanted to tell him not to bother with him and go to Mary or whoever it was he fancied – he refused to think about John _loving_ someone and would rather use this childish word instead – but he couldn’t speak if he wanted to. The words were simply not getting out.

The fact that Eurus was leaning against the wall, next to the rubber fig, looking as if she were watching a very entertaining show wasn’t helping. Sherlock felt betrayed. Younger siblings weren’t supposed to feel amused when their elders were getting their heart broken, were they?

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to everyone in the room John arrived right in front of Sherlock. He wished more than anything the floor would swallow him, or his parents would come back from wherever they went in the morning and save him from this highly unwanted conversation.

John inhaled deeply and just as Sherlock was going to tell him it was okay, he practically shoved the flowers in Sherlock’s face.

John’s hand was shaking a little and all Sherlock could do was stare dumbly at the bouquet. He was not expecting that. Did John want him to give the flowers to someone? Or did he refuse Eurus’ offer to have them for free?

“I’m confused,” Sherlock looked up at John. His eyes were probably filled with confusion. And he felt rather lost. “What do you want me to do?”

John looked extremely uncomfortable and Sherlock saw his sister shake her head out of the corner of his eyes. Right, so that was the wrong thing to say. The thing is, he had no clue _what_ he was supposed to say.

“Er, nothing,” John gulped and seemed to be debating with himself as to what he was going to say next. Sherlock waited patiently – and mostly, anxiously. “So um, you do know what they mean, right?”

“Yes,” A small theory began to bloom in Sherlock’s mind and made his heart rate considerably increase. He forced it down and crushed every ounce of hope. It would only make things worse when John would let him down.

“Well, they’re er,” John had started rubbing the back of his neck – he did it every time he had to talk about something important to him – with his free hand. “They’re for you.”

Sherlock stopped breathing. What he heard couldn’t _possibly_ be what John had actually said. If the volume and the meaning of the words John had spoken had him sure he had misunderstood, the determined look on his friend’s face made him reconsider. He managed to squeak a quiet and pathetic “what”. Every bit of elaborate vocabulary had run away from his perfect mind.

“I understand if you don’t feel the same! I’m not waiting for anything in return I just needed you to know,” John’s features were full of sadness and worry and Sherlock couldn’t stand it. He _had_ to do something, but his body wouldn’t respond to his screaming brain.

Sherlock wasn’t even listening anymore to John’s babbling. He needed to completely focus on the situation to react properly. It’s only when John lowered the flowers on the counter and his posture indicated he was going to leave that Sherlock finally thought of something.

“Wait! Stay here.” He ignored John’s puzzled look and rounded the counter to go to the same corner of the shop John had been a few moments earlier.

Sherlock was thinking fast but his fingers were moving slowly, and he was choosing the flower in an uncharacteristic, careful manner. But after all, it wouldn’t be the first he would act out of character because of John Watson.

A few tension-filled minutes later, he spun on his heels and faced John. Sherlock had never felt so unsure and determined at the same time. He didn’t know it was even possible to feel like that, but there weren’t any other ways he could describe the emotions crashing against one another inside him.

Uncertainty and determination.

He took a deep, grounding breath and marched towards his friend. Bemusement was painted all over John’s face and had partly replaced his sad and anxious expression. The signs of his surprise became more and more visible every time Sherlock took a step towards him.

Finally, Sherlock reached him and handed him the flowers. His hand was steady, but he had to make a lot of efforts to keep it that way. He was sure – 92% sure – he had read the situation right, but his confidence kept dropping with each passing second John was quiet. It was too late to retreat anyway.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John said. Sherlock felt all the blood leave his face and the sudden need to go hide under the counter like he once did months ago. “I have absolutely no idea what they mean…”

All the tension left Sherlock’s body and he couldn’t stop the relieved laughter from bubbling out of him. John looked sheepish and Sherlock felt a sudden surge of affection for the boy before him.

“Er, right,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “So these ones,” he pointed to the gardenias, “mean ‘you’re lovely’,” As he spoke, he realized how embarrassing it was going to be and wished John had listened to him more carefully when he ranted about flower language. He cleared his throat _again_ and ignored the flush he felt on his cheeks. “Um, these symbolize devotion,” he was pointing to the few lavender strands this time. “And er, these mean ‘your love is reciprocated’…” His hand was definitely shaking as he gestured toward a purple ambrosia, and he feared John hadn’t heard the last words because of how quietly he had spoken them.

But when Sherlock looked up through his lashes, he saw John grinning brightly. He felt the bouquet being taken away from his trembling hand, and John’s warm fingers settle on his wrist. He looked up out of instinct and the sight that awaited him sent a wave of relief through his body. There was no maliciousness or any hint of any kind on John’s face that would indicate this whole thing was simply a big joke being played on Sherlock. There was just _fondness_ in John’s eyes.

For once in his life, Sherlock was clueless as to what he was supposed to do next. Luckily, John was not as lost as him. Before Sherlock could think too much about what to say or do, John settled a hand on his hip and another on the back of his neck. He gently brought Sherlock’s face close to his own and pressed his slightly chapped lips against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock tensed for half a second before relaxing and adding a little bit of pressure of his own on John’s lips. He felt John smile and it was _so much better_ than simply seeing it.

When John’s lips started moving slowly Sherlock felt dizzy. His hands flew to John’s shoulders and he gripped the fabric of John’s shirt because no matter how irrational it was, he felt as if he might float away or faint if he didn’t have something solid to hold on to (and John was plenty solid).

Sherlock didn’t have much (any) experience in kissing but he tried to imitate John and assimilate what he was doing. Because if there was one thing he was experienced at, it was learning quickly.

To Sherlock, nothing existed except John and him. He felt light-headed, like every piece of knowledge had left his mind. The only thing he could focus on was the movement of John’s lips against his clumsily moving own, the counter digging in his back and the smell of John’s cheap shampoo.

It was perfect.

Sherlock’s blissful state of mind was violently shattered by a fake and exaggerated retching noise. He separated himself from John with a small ‘pop’ and opened his eyes (he didn’t remember closing them in the first place, but he didn't remember much after that kiss). He glared at his sister, who was making a disgusted face.

“Do that elsewhere!” She yelled.

Sherlock yelled back, “Don’t stand there if it bothers you!”

And just like that, they were arguing over whether or not John and him were allowed to snog in the shop. The fight happened mostly between Sherlock and Eurus, but John sometimes popped in to make a point or laugh at them. Finally, Eurus retreated to the back of the shop – not without threatening them to strangle the both of them if her or any customers walked in on them “doing anything that might cause someone to become blind” – and Sherlock and John were left alone.

Sherlock felt a little shy and unsure about the whole situation, but all his worries disappeared when John cupped his face and called him adorable with a teasing smile on. They were in this together.

It was scary and new and exciting and dangerous.

And Sherlock had never felt so happy.

**Author's Note:**

> I love flowers (and plants in general) but I know very little about them. I don't know which ones are suited or not for bouquets, and I am not much of an artist either so the flower arrangements I described are probably very ugly in real life. Sorry  
> Comments, advice and kudos are always welcome  
> My Tumblr is [gayavocad0](https://gayavocad0.tumblr.com/)  
> Have a nice day/night!


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